


Safe

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Attraction, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Developing Relationship, Domestication, Dysfunctional Family, Empathy, Friendship/Love, M/M, Mild Domination/Submission, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Past Violence, Protectiveness, Strange Bedfellows, Sugar Daddy, care and feeding of pirates, er-chickens, getting mellow, quiet burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-06 00:10:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11589021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: This falls somewhere between a new relationship and old marrieds. Rumplestiltskin is feeling his way through his connection to Killian, and is haunted by both of their pasts. I'm not sure there's domestic fluff, but it may be on the way.





	Safe

Killian said, “Gods, I hated you, then.”

“Aye.” Rumplestiltskin’s voice was soft. His left hand held Killian’s forearm; the fingers of his right hand stroked and pet through dark hair. They stroked over the shock, the abbreviation and subdued horror of the stump.

He looked at Killian, sprawled naked in his bed. The pirate took to wealth quite well.

Even naked, freed of the alternating softness and cracked creak of his leather, there was something of the ruffian about him. He was a bit animal, his dark pelt making patterns from collar bones to crotch, on his forearms and over the long, wide-apart length of his legs.

Nevertheless, he luxuriated in the fine sheets, the crisp coolness of the fold, the softness of the weave. Shadows gathered in corners, and he rolled his head to the side, watching Rumplestiltskin.

The older man sat cross-legged, beside him. He, too, was naked, but for a dark and now messy shirt. It was unbuttoned, hanging on his frame. Rumplestiltskin was pale and sparse where Killian was dark and well muscled, and yet it was Rumplestiltskin who, in many ways, was on top.

Glancing at Killian as he massaged about the stump, Rumplestiltskin asked, “Is it strange? To be touched, here?”

“Aye.” A flash of devilry in his knife-quick smile. “Especially by you, mate.”

Rumplestiltskin accepted that with a nod and a frown. This was his work, after all. It was a word spoken rashly that couldn’t be taken back. It cut through bone.

“It feels good, though.” Killian said, and sighed. His eyes closed, and Rumplestiltskin marveled over the pirate’s prettiness. He felt penitent. He could hardly blame Milah, stuck with his skinny, often groveling countenance, limping about and avoiding challenge like a particularly virulent plague… Killian must have seemed like something out of high romance. Swept in from the rough sea and smelling of the salty air… crystals of salt glinting on his skin, in his stubble. Those damn, white teeth, that crow black hair. The dark, sooty eyelashes, now laying so sweetly against his cheeks.

“It aches.” Killian said, his voice a murmur.

Rumplestiltskin thought _, Yes, it does_.

 

 

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Killian said. He rolled to his belly… for emphasis, Rumplestiltskin supposed.

It was a good move; effective. It revealed a long sweep of muscled and yet lithe back, and the charming rounding of his bum. It had become funny to Rumplestiltskin, the way Killian was hairy on the front, but not on the back. After a relatively pale expanse of hamstring, the dark hair began again, sparse above the knee and thicker below. It made an enticing, suggestive path as it approached from his inner thighs.

Unable to help himself, Rumplestiltskin grabbed two handfuls of bum and kneaded the big, fleshy muscle, like kneading bread dough. Dangerous, incendiary territory. The kneading opened Killian, revealed secret parts. The hole, ruddy and needy, almost obscured by dark hair. The heavy, restful ponderance of dark-furred balls.

Gods, his animal parts. They got under Rumplestiltskin’s skin and set his teeth on edge. He felt himself getting hard, though his cock – exhausted – lacked commitment. Killian’s hips did a little grind to the bed; he made a soft murmur into the pillow he hugged.

Well. He’d created a successful diversion. Rumplestiltskin smiled to think of how easy it was… the act of _turning over_. One couldn’t even call it a plan.

He slapped a back-talking cheek, playful and grinning a sharp grin. He was often amazed that so narrow a lad had sprouted such a lushness of arse… there was a ghostly, silvery tracery of stretchmarks that feathered from Killian’s hips to his bum… the only note of voluptuousness on his lean body.

A big gluteal muscle clenched and unclenched, and Killian said, _“Ooh_ … spank me, daddy.”

Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes. Sometimes the pirate was sassy and stupid, it couldn’t be helped.

He supposed he didn’t want to talk about it, either…. The past. He never liked to speak of times when he was weak, to relive them. But… he felt pulled. He felt curious and investigative. This strange coupling… he’d found it so bizarre, so unlikely. It’s dark and unapproachable roots had served as a draw, at the start. Echoes of power and revenge.

But now it seemed as if, perhaps, it had been inevitable. Less strange than he’d first imagined… a natural conclusion. There was a part of himself, highly developed before the Dark One helped to blunt it, that was very empathic. Overly so… painfully so. Killian was sparking that part back to life.

 

 

 

 

Abandonment, even abuse. It was quite the theme in Storybrooke. It informed the character of many a resident and instructed their actions. Their coping mechanisms, their personalities might be different, but there was a sameness to many origins.

So it was with Rumplestiltskin and Killian.

It had been a startling moment when, out of nowhere, Rumplestiltskin had the thought… _we both killed our fathers_.

How was that for common ground? For a _foundation_.

Each had not only committed murder, and sometimes with brutal casualness; each had committed patricide. For Rumplestiltskin, it was long belated and an act that, for a time, was regarded by others as heroic. It still hurt, actually. It was less the act of murder that pained him, and more the fact that his father was immune to him, to the bitter end.

He’d made no impact… his father didn’t _see_ him, did not acknowledge the importance of having a child or of abandoning him. In the end, all that was left was homicide. _Patricide_. It came with a convenient act of self-sacrifice and saving the day; hoorah. Yet it had been the only thing left to do… his only note of self-expression to the man who had so badly wounded him, and so early in his life.

Killian barely spoke of such things, but Rumplestiltskin had gleaned a little. Now that empathy once more troubled him with its disturbing osmosis, he was always learning more. Sometimes he felt his way. Sometimes it was as if Killian’s voice was in his head, telling disjointed bits of story.

He knew that, like himself, Killian had been abandoned as a boy. He’d had his brother, Liam, and had formed a team of two. He’d learned to be a fighter, to assert himself. His instinctive, boyhood approach to survival had been the polar opposite of Rumplestiltskin’s, and yet was guided by the same fears.

Where Rumplestiltskin practiced invisibility, Killian made himself loudly known. Where Rumplestiltskin felt his way, lacking a shell and horribly open to the thoughts and feelings of others, perhaps even to spirits; Killian set aside feeling. Killian knew loyalty and a pack mentality with his brother; later, with his shipmates. That was his most passionate of feelings… aside from his wolf tendencies, he was fairly free of empathy. He’d hardened early on. He had a sturdy shell.

But his father, wielding the same mythological power as Rumplestiltskin’s father, had cracked the shell. Rumplestiltskin understood that Killian had been unexpectedly reunited with his father, and years of feelings repressed, stamped down, came rearing up like a tsunami.

The father had begun anew; a new life and family, a new son. Killian could not contain his rage over such a thing, nor the jealousy that so abundantly fed it. How could his father thrive in this new life, unfettered by guilt? How could he not be haunted by the sons he’d abandoned to the ocean? To the wolves.

It was the same for both of them, Rumplestiltskin thought. The betrayal was an outrage… it was an outrage, how little impact they had on their fathers. It was an injustice like no other. That their fathers could quite happily go on without them… that they were children left to fend for themselves…. Neither one had been able to let it stand.

 

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin slid his hands up Killian’s back, coming to lay his head between Killian’s shoulder blades. The pirate was warm. There was a flushed softness to Killian’s skin that happened after sex, not unlike the softness that sleep brought… heated up cheeks and swollen lips.

Rumplestiltskin listened to the ocean sounds of Killian’s insides, to the muted _thumping_ of the heart he’d held in his hands. He closed his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

Even when little, so unbelievably innocent and small for his age, Rumplestiltskin had a sense of the Dark One. Like so many premonitions that came to him as feeling, he had no name, no context for it… he only knew a vague sense of terror.

The world was unsafe; he knew this first-hand. He saw it repeat in the brutality of nature. He found a baby bird at the base of a tree, sparsely feathered and pecked to death by its nest mates. The runt, its smallness and the hurt emanating from its swollen, closed eyes so like himself.

The world was unsafe, and, in addition, there were things around that not everyone saw. Maybe not _anyone_.

Rumplestiltskin woke from boyhood nightmares, and dark things still capered about the hovel. They plucked at bedclothes. They whispered things he could make no sense of, voices raspy and phlegm-thick. He hugged his knees and squeezed his eyes shut, repeating mantras in his head… childish things, like _spinning wheel, spinning wheel, spinning wheel._

The image of the wheel spun in his mind. The wood was a little warped; the hush of the spin was also an off-kilter rattle-clack, and the steadiness of it, the beat drowned out the dark things. Maybe it chased them off, a sort of magic. A spell. When he opened his eyes, it would be to shadows, only. The sleeping shapes of spinsters, hunkered down in bedclothes.

 

 

 

 

Killian. Little killer.

His magpie collection of jewels came from his victims. He killed with looks, as well. He was a lady-killer… he made them laugh, but there was less of them at his departure. He flashed the bluest eyes any had seen, batted his eyelashes. As a boy, women cradled and fed him. His prettiness belied the vicious nature to which he’d trained himself… women felt, instinctively and painfully, the broken child. They wanted to mend Killian’s heart. They also wanted to make generous use of his cock.

Rumplestiltskin had no such skills, no such ability to play upon others when he was growing up. It wasn’t only that he lacked Killian’s prettiness; it was a bone-deep nature. When he met the eyes of others, they marked him. His vulnerability could not be kept from his face, from the dark, wounded pools of his eyes.

He hadn’t learned, then, to keep spirits at bay. He hadn’t learned to keep the thoughts and feelings of others at arm’s length. It was all overwhelming, and others could easily see… he was a weak lamb within the flock, bleating unknowingly to the wolves. _Come and get me_.

Women were wicked. Men noted him as a target. It was better to look down, to escape notice. Eye contact caused ripples, implied challenge.

Of course, all of that changed with the arrival of the Dark One. Then... he looked wherever he pleased.

 

 

 

 

In a low, somber voice, Rumplesiltskin said, “Horrors.”

Killian followed his stony gaze, out of the shop window and down the street. He beheld Maleficent, Cruella and Ursula… the Queens of Darkness, maybe he Furies, quite possibly Gorgon Sisters, replete with Ursula’s serpent-like tentacles. In private and in whatever passed for their natural states of being, perhaps they shared an eye and a tooth between them.

His balls tried to creep up into his body, an upsetting, twitchy feeling, wherein his balls tried to mimic Ursula’s seascape, octopus movements. He said, “Fucking hell. I’m hiding in the back.”

“I think not, dearie.” Rumplestiltskin said, grabbing hold of Killian’s shirt. “Stay put. Deflect and divert, there’s a good lad.”

Huffing, Killian said, “You don’t think for a moment they’re coming here for _me_ , Imp.” He cast a wild eye at the window. They were nearly at hand. They walked side-by-side, owning the street like a girl-gang. There was a premonition of theme music; maybe something disco.

Rumplestiltskin began to concur, but then rubbed his chin, thoughtful. Hmmm. Maybe they _were_ coming for Killian. Maybe they wanted a taste of a pretty boy.

But then the door whooshed open, courtesy of Maleficent’s wand. Or staff, whatever; currently it was disguised as a hat-pin. The little bell over his door made a frantic ringing. His fingers clenched tighter to Killian’s dark and ridiculously flouncy shirt. Maleficent barked, “Dark One!”

Ah, well. The ladies out stud-hunting had been an amusing and sort of pleasant thought, but he supposed it was same-old, same-old. He gestured widely with his free arm, smiled broadly, if somewhat nastily, and said, “Ladies!” A wishful euphemism, such as Good Neighbors and Kindly Ones. Fair Folk.

Maleficent looked dead-pan bored. Cruella very nearly looked the same, but couldn’t quite conceal the little gleam she’d always kept for Rumplestiltskin. Ursula curled her lip into a snarl at Killian, and he backed up a step, still tethered by Rumplestiltskin.

“Hello, darling.” Cruella growl-purred.

Maleficent maintained eye-contact without blinking, revealing her Gorgon nature. Her dragon form was another clue; an overblown serpent, the explosive result of a reptilian nature suppressed. In that form, she mated.

Ursula asked, “Why are you stuck, like a barnacle, to that filthy pirate?”

Oh, if they only knew. Rumplestiltskin ignored Ursula’s question, and moved to stand in front of Killian as one of her tentacles appeared out of nowhere. Where _did_ she keep them, when she was terrestrial? It hovered, menacing Killian.

“ _Oi_ , love. Don’t point that thing at me.” Killian snarled, teeth bared in a moment of false bravado. His hook menaced back. Rumplestiltskin looked at the ceiling… So cute.

The tentacle-thing pointed. It jabbed the air. Its suckers seemed to breathe, to have a hankering for pirate flesh. Rumplestiltskin said, “To what do we owe the…. _pleasure_?”

Cruella smiled, true. As the women of his youth, she was wicked.

 

 

 

 

 

He had mellowed, Rumplestiltskin came to realize. This was a serious mellowing. Whether the influence of sleepy Storybrooke or merely age, experience… maybe all of it… he had mellowed. It wasn’t accurate to say he’d become more open or loving… people still grated at him, bounced around on his nerves. He often failed to value human life as one might hope.

But he’d grown weary of actively pursuing plots, mayhem… the long game. His search for Baelfire had been his longest game, by far, and… look. Bae was gone, forever. The enduring legacy of the game was Storybrooke. He was left, spinning wheel spinning, ruminating on formative years while his hands made a Braille-like study of Killian. Well. That last bit was quite pleasant.

He, himself, had been Killian’s long game, the object of Killian’s thirst for vengeance. Perhaps the thwarting of revenge, the twisting of all that one thought was needed, desired, added to the strange, suspended feeling of mellowing. It affected Killian, too. When Rumplestiltskin brought up old patterns of revenge, the enmity between them, Killian only smiled.

He’d said, “Look what that got me, Imp.” White teeth and a graphically rude finger gesture. “ _Fucked_ , mate. _Right_ up the arse.”

It made Rumplestiltskin snicker and think fondly on Killian’s compromised position. The pirate seemed to enjoy having his destiny redirected.

This was his new realm of pleasure, comfort. Gone was the desire to follow an intrigue to a magical and often pointless end. The Queens of Darkness, now in hot pursuit of a magical object – unknowingly inherited by Mary Margaret Blanchard – were all aflutter. The object was a locket, but was, in truth, a rare piece of fae magic that would increase their already formidable powers. His as well; that was the bait for assistance. Maleficent and Ursula wanted more freedom… an ability to walk worlds. They wanted to go home, but they also wanted to maintain worldly visas. They wanted to shop in Wonderland and holiday in Avonlea.

Cruella, of course, simply wanted _more_. More power, more money. A reassurance of immortality. A bigger mansion, more cars and more servants.

A more interesting array of sex toys and a dungeon of iniquity. Rare canine breeds to startle the vulnerable.

Ambitious creatures, all of them, and Rumplestiltskin found he couldn’t care less. As they badgered and harangued in his shop, making poorly veiled threats and snarky insults regarding his height, he’d pulled the back of Killian’s shirt free of his leather trousers. His hand found its way under the shirt…. The skin of Killian’s back was warm… soft skin over firm muscle. It was now-familiar territory, and his mind seemed attuned to it, on auto-pilot; attuned to Killian. The Gorgon Sisters droned on and on and it meant nothing. He thought, oddly and distractedly, he might purchase some chickens.

 

 

 

 

 

And so, he had…

There was a simplicity to his life, now. A routine. Killian did not quite live with him, yet was always around. They did not quite speak of or fully acknowledge the thing – _feelings_ – so foreign to both, yet they kissed with regularity. They had cycles. They loitered around and wasted time.

If Killian hadn’t slept in his bed, then he arrived early in the morning… he sat at Rumplestiltskin’s kitchen table, drinking coffee and happily eating whatever Rumplestiltskin cooked. Rumplestiltskin was pleased in the cooking. He considered that he might have gone simpleminded as well as mellow.

His newfound annoyance with treason and plot – _oh_ – the bother and fuss of it all, the stupid, little details and anxiety producing awareness of the inner workings of others… it led to an unusually fond pondering of the past. That very thing he’d endeavored to forget and outrun. That person he’d once been, and had loathed.

Was this what happened to old men? Did they become forgiving of the disappointments of their boyhood selves? Did they lose all interest in ambition and only dream of tasting food as they once had? Of feeling light and air, in the manner they did as boys? Did they wish for magic for its own sake, rather than for power?

Was he developing dementia?

It was in this spirit that the chickens were purchased; five hens and a rooster. They reminded him a great deal of his youth. He called the hens Maleficent, Ursula, Cruella, Regina and Emma. He told Killian the rooster was Black Tom, as the spinsters who raised him had called a series of glossy-black roosters. In private, he thought of the fowl as a Proud Cock and called him Killy. Killy strutted the yard with his chest puffed out, tail feathers flamboyant and rapscallion, each step the self-conscious posing of a matador. He patrolled the perimeter and kept the hens in line. He crowed for the Glory of all Fowl.

Truly, he was losing his mind. Marbles… rolling about and getting under furniture, into crevices, forever gone. All of his card decks were missing cards and were only good for reading the most bizarre and ambling of fortunes. Each deck had retained its Fool or Joker.

He planted gardens and raised chickens. When he undressed, Killian grabbed a handful of extra flesh… a love handle; how appropriately named in this period of mellowing and simple pleasure. He was going soft, literally.

“What’s this, mate?” Killian smiled, hand palpating. He didn’t seem terribly put off.

“Oh.” Rumplestiltskin feigned surprise. He had a tailor; he wasn’t surprised. “Where did _that_ come from?”

He was becoming a source of amusement to Killian. Every so often, he had to grab the pirate by the neck… just to keep him on his toes, make him blush in that feverish way of his. He couldn’t let himself begin to dodder, poking about and smoking his pipe. He tried not to let himself spin long yarns about the old days.

Yet. Here he was, being followed around the garden by Killy-the-Rooster, who was conversational. He tossed a grape to Regina, who caught it with regal aplomb. She ran like hell, eyes wild and drumsticks pumping… the others went nuts. A noisy ruckus was raised as they fell into mad pursuit, awash in grape-envy. In the lead was the little, tawny scrapper; Emma.

Rumplestiltskin popped a grape into his mouth and said, “Heh, heh.”

 

 

 

 

 

Killian said, “Gimme some sugar.”

Rumplestiltskin raised a brow. He shouldn’t allow the pirate to watch television.

“I will _not_.”

“Come on, mate. Be a good neighbor.”

With a sigh, a touch put-upon, Rumplestiltskin leaned into Killian for a quick kiss. A smooch. The ghost-brushing of lips sent a shiver through him, an interesting and dizzying promise. Killian, however, only seemed agitated.

“Happy?” Rumplestiltskin asked, uncertain.

“Oh, aye, Imp. It was everything I’ve dreamt of.”

Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes. “I’m not _fucking_ you in my shop, dearie.” Shaking his head, he muttered, “So greedy.”

Killian harrumphed… it was a true, phonetic harr- _umph_.

This was the pattern: Killian initiated. He badgered, in fact. He pestered and manipulated, charmed and begged. He negotiated, endeavored to close a deal and, eventually, resorted to inflicting guilt. He implied a threat of absence, of abstinence. He touched and pet and insinuated.

For all of this knave-like courtship, once Rumplestiltskin consented to being wooed, Killian turned passive. He allowed. He swooned with want and with pleasure, and let himself be used in whatever way Rumplestiltskin saw fit. He luxuriated both in adoration and in being dominated.

Then, after, he was amorous in a different way. He was softer, cuddlesome. As Rumplestiltskin was impelled towards sleep, an inexorable, drugged path, Killian stroked and sucked and kissed…. He tickled and squeezed, he nuzzled and did unspeakable things with his tongue and fingers. He whispered, “Come on, love. Don’t sleep. Do me again.”

The pattern was predictable, and yet Rumplestiltskin was not bored. He loved it; he sought its repetition. He even enjoyed playing out the irksome bits. He participated, but also voyeuristically observed. He was addicted.

In a pout after his _harrumph_ , Killian said, “I think Cruella wants to make you her bitch, mate. I think she wants to hoist you over her shoulder and cart you off to her lair.”

“There’s a thought.”

“Aye? You want to be dragged off by the hair?” He grabbed a handful of Rumplestiltskin’s too-long hair. “Maybe Ursula would join in. Work a tentacle up your arse.”

“Killian. I didn’t say it was a _good_ thought. You’re dreadful, dearie.”

There was another _harrumph_ and pout. Whatever Killian wanted, he wanted it _now_. Antsy little fucker.

Rumplestiltskin studied his odd bedfellow. The pirate, in truth, was nearly as old as himself. They’d both been alive for far too many years. The magic of Neverland, the exotically fae magic that arrested Killian’s years was of a far more subtle and nurturing nature than the Curse of the Dark One. Killian actually remained young, while Rumplestiltskin was long-lived…. But the Curse was a corrupting one. It deducted payment.

Still. Should Killian be so impatient? So impulsive? Should he pout?

As he might with Henry, Rumplestiltskin pulled some bills from his pocket and handed them to Killian. “Go get yourself some lunch.” He suggested.

Killian was usually quite happy to accept his money, but Rumplestiltskin found himself met with the pout.  Again. Blue-eyed, blushing, crow-boy pout.

“What?” he asked, his hand still out, between them, dangling money.

“You don’t want to come with me?”

“I’m busy, dearie.”

“I’m not hungry.” Killian muttered, looking down.

Well, that was a lie. The pirate was always hungry. He was a bottomless pit.

“Fuck’s sake.” Rumplestiltskin breathed, becoming impatient, himself. “You’re a grown man. Take the money and get out of my hair for a wee bit.”

Killian’s eyes blazed, a brief flare-up. He took the money, a petulant snatch, and turned on his heel. A bit stiff, he walked out of the shop without parting words, leaving Rumplestiltskin momentarily mystified.

That’s when it hit him. _Oooh, spank me, daddy_.

All the things, the past hurts he’d been pondering, combing over, were suddenly crisp and clear. He’d brooded, like frizzle-feathered Cruella over her eggs, and now one had up and hatched.

Killian had latched onto him as a boy who desperately needs a father. Their mutual longevity didn’t matter… it was their very natures that created the dynamic. It made sense in a new way; Killian’s endless need for attention, for care and feeding. Approval. _Discipline_.

Oh, good gods.

Where did this leave him? He was as fatherless as Killian. He knew himself to be just as needy of those things his father had denied. But… he was a father, himself. He’d lost his son.

Hand to his heart, one presumed it was in there, he retched just a bit. He paled. No. Whatever was happening with Killian, it was not a substitute for Baelfire. No. No….. no. It just wasn’t. He didn’t want from Killian those things he wished he’d had with Baelfire.

Unless… acceptance? To be needed? To care for another. Did such things translate as attraction? Sex? Ugh. It would be better to be molested by Ursula’s tentacles. To have Cruella put him on a leash and toss him a snack, to be caught in mid-air.

He was suddenly uncomfortable with himself and with Killian, and found himself in a fierce blush as he relived fulfilling Killian’s desire for a spanking. He relived his own arousal at the act.

He’d never done that to Baelfire… he’d never wanted or needed to. For one, Baelfire had been a good child, an easy child. Soft-natured and fair-minded… worlds away from Killian’s rash, hard-headed, blood-driven nature. For another, it was Milah who’d addressed the childish misbehaviors… the things that Rumplestiltskin found of little consequence… a stolen cookie, a small transgression of back-talk.

The most he’d ever managed was a stern voice and a, “You’d best mind me, son.” It had been enough; Baelfire had minded.

No. This had to be something else, this play he engaged in with Killian. It just had to be. Still, there could be no doubt… from Killian’s perspective, he was the daddy.

 

 

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin felt lazy and content. His book was propped on his newly padded belly. He was a cat, he thought. He could be curled in a patch of sunlight, purring, whiskers awake and aware. He shared his couch with Killian, each at his own end, and their legs sprawled in the space between. Their legs tangled, linked together…. Bare feet nudged against restful hips. It was an embrace of legs.

Freed of the embrace, their upper bodies reclined back. They each read a book. Rumplestiltskin read through an old manuscript, salvaged from the Enchanted Forest and found in his shop; a study of the origins and applications of magic. Kilian read 'The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy'.

They were each in their own worlds, in their own heads, yet connected. Every so often, Rumplestiltskin’s hand meandered down to Killian’s foot. He held it warmly, petting the dusting of hair, feeling the resistance of bones, fingertips feathery at the arch. Long toes reflexively moved to grasp at him. His hand moved up to fold around the ankle.

The chickens were to-bed. Rumplestiltskin was amused to see that they mostly put themselves to bed, come sundown. Ursula and Emma, perhaps predictably, were reluctant to turn-in. They were also the least prolific egg-layers. Proud Cock Killy took to chasing them into the coop at night, then he roosted himself in a pine tree, just above. All was safe and sound.

It was how Rumplestiltskin felt, now. He and Killian were fed, the kitchen was tidied and its light turned off, a fire muttered in the fireplace, and Killian was a warm animal, at home in his house.

All was safe and sound.

 

 

THE END

 


End file.
